The woman looks awkward and decently apalled as, standing off a ways, she aims
glares of exasperation at her wayward husband, at the whole gaudy thing he's playing into
like a child overcome with the wonder of a spangly toy that runs on the fat kind of batteries, and lots of them.
She cocks her neck and her slim-suited frame just noticeably, assuming the off-put stance appropriate
to tolerance and moderate disgust, to someone braced for listening to the umpteenth repetition
    of an argument that makes no sense to them.
But he, and I think I must say gloriously, appears not to care, or even, really, to notice her
as he stands silly-grinned, arms wholly, almost religiously open, doling stale corn fist by fist
to the whorl of pigeons that press soft bodies against him, one over the other
in a flutter of greed and flesh that, though momentary, aggressively promises
we love you only, and precisely, for what you have to give.